Aftermath
by Lunar1
Summary: Vimes returns after the events of MR. Spoilers for MR, obviously.


He hadn't wanted to go. And now he was coming back, successful, and yet with a curious misgiving in his heart; a nagging worry he couldn't pin down.

The Ducal coach rocked, cradle-like, as it passed over the potholes in the road home. He'd sent Angua on ahead three hours ago to make an informal report to Vetinari and Reg was on the roof, leaving Vimes inside with his thoughts. Ankh-Morpork was less than two hours away and Vimes could almost... well, he could quite literally smell the city. There was a terrible restlessness in him, the burning desire to at last be home... and yet still a worry.

Part of that was introspective; how was it that he, drunken captain of the Night Watch had ever managed to become so heavily involved in Disc politics, to the extent of travelling to a foreign country to try and stop a bloody conflict that had been going on for years? When had he gained so much experience of human nature that he could /know/ exactly how to manipulate someone, exactly how to twist the world so that it all fitted neatly into his Big Picture. Sam Vimes had always been a little picture man. He wasn't sure he knew /how/ to be the other sort.

He remembered the kid, Polly, how she'd stood in front of him, and he could see in her eyes, in her stance that she knew that /he/ knew /everything/... And he'd thought about it afterwards, and wondered if that was what Vetinari felt like every damn day...

And more worrying than that was the real reason he was playing absent mindedly with his badge, spinning the polished metal disc so that it caught the light, shattered facets of reflection spinning crazily on the wooden ceiling. Sybil and Sam.

He'd been gone for six weeks. Every time he tried to translate that into the growth of a small boy his thoughts seemed to twist and fly away; he couldn't quite bring himself to think the thought. He kept telling himself that he was being ridiculous. His son couldn't have forgotten him... not after only six weeks...

He stared gloomily out of the window, watching the rolling panorama of crops slide past, having at last managed to think the unthinkable, and not feeling any better about it. 

*

Vimes jumped down from the coach with an expression of relief. The last ten minutes had not been fun, juddering over the cobbles until they had reached Pseudopolis Yard. Broomstick travel had done frankly unspeakable things to the parts of Vimes in contact with the broom. The blisters on his hands from gripping tightly on the rough wood were the least of his worries. And further bouncing around in the coach hadn't exactly helped matters. It felt good to have feet in contact with terra firma, and even better for the terra firma to be terra ankh-morporkia. 

Captain Carrot was waiting for him. He saluted the Commander smartly. 'Good to see you back, sir.'

'What's been going on Captain?' Vimes asked, sharply, trying to stamp some life back into his feet which had gone to sleep on the coach.

'Well sir, we had some nasty brawls and a murder over this Borogravian business, but things seem to have quietened down considerably. There was a robbery at Vortins again sir, Constable Slapper got a bit hurt but Igor says the stitches can come out soon. Apart from that pretty run of the mill stuff.'

'I suppose I'd better make a report to Vetinari...'

'Very good sir. I've tried to keep ahead of the paperwork but there's a few things I thought you ought to look at first.'

Vimes grimaced. 'Tomorrow I think Carrot. Or possibly Monday. I'm looking forward to making my report and then having a nice week of sleep.' And a bath, he added mentally, And some of Sybil's wonderful ointments.

It wasn't a long walk to the Palace, but Vimes dawdled slightly, relishing the feel of cobbles under his boots and listening to the sound of the city in winter. Nothing seemed amiss and he knocked politely on the door of Vetinari's office twenty minutes later.

'Come in Commander.'

Vimes pushed open the door and stood at attention easily in front of the Patrician. Relief seemed to wash over him; suddenly it all felt right, reporting back to Vetinari. 'Sir,' he said.

'Congratulations are in order your grace.'

'Yes sir,' said Vimes, thinking once more of the faces of the Monstrous Regiment in the dungeon.

'Lord Rust has issued a number of complaints against your person, it seems.'

'Really sir?' said Vimes, losing the battle to keep his face straight.

'Indeed,' replied Vetinari, covering his own smile with his hand. He shuffled some paper momentarily before meeting Vimes's eyes, once again deadly serious. 'Will it last, Vimes?'

Vimes sighed. 'I doubt it sir, very much. But I think.... I think that Borogravia might be stable enough to hold off any invasions for the time being. The dwarves were already mobilising when I passed through, ready to trade again. With resources, some of which we have promised to provide sir, as I said before, I think the situation can be... stabilised.'

'A good job then, Commander. Lady Sybil will be /extremely/ proud of you.'

'I expect so,' said Vimes, studying Vetinari's face carefully.

'Well, Commander, I think I have made enough demands on your time for the moment. Go home. See your family.'

There was an order barely disguised in the mild statement, but Vimes no longer felt the pull of the law over that of his family.

'Yessir!' he said, saluting Vetinari before hurrying back out into the streets.

There was an icy chill in the air, a wind blowing from the Hub bringing foul wintery weather. When Vimes had left it had still only been mild Autumn, remnants of summer warmth still lingering on sunny days. Hogswatch was coming...

Familiar gravel crunched under his worn boots as he hurried up the driveway of the Ramkin-Vimes Mansion. He never thought of it like that anymore. It was home, the feel of the gravel through his thin soles more pleasant to him at this moment than any other street in Ankh-Morpork.

He fumbled in his pocket for his key, but Willikins had obviously heard him approaching; the door opened before he could push the key in the lock.

'Your grace,' he said, about as close to smiling as a butler ever could be, 'Lady Sybil and young master Sam are in the mildly yellow drawing room.'

'Thanks Willikins,' said Vimes gratefully, slipping his boots off his feet and depositing his keys on the side table (although he wouldn't remember doing so the next morning).

He could hear voices echoing as he hurried through the ancestral hall, and a squeal of excited laughter. Vimes paused for a moment outside the door, holding his breath.

'You're a clever boy, aren't you? A very clever boy.' That was Sybil.

'Wheee!' Sam replied, clapping his hands clumsily.

'Your daddy's going to be so pleased with you when he gets back. He's going to be ve- '

The sound of the door opening made them both turn.

Lady Sybil physically sagged with the allayment of a thousand night-time fears as she saw her husbands unshaven and slightly anxious looking face peering from behind the door. Sam clapped again and squealed as Vimes picked him up and hugged him.

'When did you get so big?' he asked, and Sam blew a bubble at him in response. Vimes kissed the little boy on the nose.

'Carrot said you were coming back,' Sybil said, looking him up and down. He seemed to be in one piece. 

Vimes put down his son, running a thumb over the fringe of brown hair he had not possessed in such luxuriant quantities when his father had left. 

'He's got a new tooth as well,' said Sybil, showing Vimes the single tiny rounded protrusion in Sam's pink gums, startlingly white.

'And his eyes are darker,' Vimes noted. The baby blue eyes Sam had possessed as a new born seemed destined to become a hazel brown. Vimes felt a lump rising in his throat which he hastily swallowed .

'He's turning into his father,' she replied with a smile. It was true, already Sam was losing the pinkish beach-ball quality of the newborn, his features becoming more and more identifiable as it were, and traceable.

'Poor kid,' Vimes murmured, making Lady Sybil smile slightly more broadly.

Sam Vimes Junior had the unfortunate luck of being born into two Discworld genetic dynasties. From his mother's side he would inherit a healthy solidarity, good bone structure and a tendency to say things like 'doncherknow.' From his father came a smaller, skinny frame; wiry rather than stocky and a tendency to say things like 'bugger.' Fairly early on in his development it seemed his genes must have sat rather embarrassedly around the nucleus and tried to negotiate a compromise.

Sam had been lucky in managing to inherit the best of both. Vimes hereditary had won out when it came to facial features; already his nose, jaw structure and dark eyes were clearly attributable to his father but he was already big for his age and would continue to be so until late adolescence, eventually reaching proportions closer to Captain Carrot than his own father. 

*

It was later. A fully washed, shaved and undressed Commander Vimes pulled on a clean nightshirt and sunk gratefully into his bed with a sigh. Sam was already asleep and Vimes had no other intention than following suite and enjoying the only relaxed night's sleep he would have in six weeks. He blew out the candle. 

'It's good to be back,' he said, apparently to the dark ceiling.

'It's good to have you back,' Lady Sybil muttered sleepily into her pillow on the other side of the bed. 

'I missed you. Both of you.' Vimes said and Lady Sybil stirred slightly at this declaration, unusual for Sam Vimes, normally a man adept at hiding his feelings. 

Every night, Vimes added mentally, Whenever I'd finally collapse on some too small, straw-mattressed bed. I wonder when I stopped being used to those? They were all I used to sleep on... Whenever time would allow thoughts to turn homeward to what you were doing, what Sam was doing two thousand miles away...

'What happened out there Sam?' Sybil asked, 'I mean, the papers were full of... stories and rumours and those funny little cartoons... What really happened?'

Vimes turned over, able to see her concerned face in the dark now his eyes had adjusted to the gloom and told her.

There was silence for some time. 'I always said you'd got hidden depths, Samuel Vimes,' Lady Sybil managed after a while, poking him in the ribs.

'No,' Vimes said, voice a little hoarse now from talking, 'It wasn't like that. It was just... thinking in terms of the street and making it all bigger. Looking at the little picture and sort of magnifying it until it was the big one.' He lapsed into silence again, listening to the sounds of the city, quiet but still audible through the half-open window.

'What happened here whilst I was gone?' Vimes asked.

'Oh, lots of little things. Some pretty big riots. I think there was a break in a-' 

'I meant /here/,' Vimes said, cutting her off, 'At home. To you.'

'Oh. Well, lots of little things,' she repeated, 'Sam's tooth. He can sit up now, you know. By himself. And he's /trying/ to crawl around a bit. Not being all that successful at the moment but it's a start. They printed a new edition of Twurp's Peerage and he's included in it. They do a little special edition now that's just about potential marriages for the young nobility and he's included in that as well.'

'My gods,' Vimes managed. Curiosity got the better of him. 'Who's he down to marry then?'

'Well, there's lots of potential candidates. I think number one is princess Esmeralda Margaret Note-Spelling of Lancre.' 

Vimes winced. 'And I thought 'Sam Vimes' was bad. No, I don't think I could stand having a daughter-in-law with a name like that. Think of the wedding invitations, for one thing.' 

But it raised an interesting question in Vimes's mind, one which had nagged at him occasionally previously and that he'd put away for later consideration rather than tempt fate. How would young Sam be educated and introduced to? The very idea of his son being raised as a gentleman twisted in Vimes's chest, he'd rather die than send his son to the Assassin's Guild to be schooled., but he was equally as opposed to condemning him to an education as poor as his own. If he thought about it at all he'd want his son to marry for, well, love and things like that. Not power or money, or an equal social standing. 

Only his son wasn't Sam Vimes, born in Cockbill Street. He was Sam Vimes the heir to a Duchy. Very few women he met weren't going to be in the least bit interested in the several million dollars he had in the bank... But then again Vimes himself hadn't been when he'd proposed to Sybil...

'I think we need to get a cook.'

Sybil's voice bought him out of his reverie.

'Sorry dear?'

'A cook. I think we ought to get one.'

'We've got one haven't we?' said Vimes, too confused to parallel-process and maintain his own train of thought.

'We've got one for 'social entertainment' meals, yes, but not a live-in one.'

'Do we /need/ a live- in one?' Vimes asked, completely befuddled. This was even worse than a curtain conversation.

'Well I think we do. I'm not a very good cook and now Sam's on solids-' 

'He's not on solids.'

'Yes he is!'

'He's on that strange orange slop that they sell for babies but I wouldn't call that /solid/. There's nothing wrong with your... well, there's nothing I don't like about your cooking.'

'I know. I'd still cook for /you/. But I think a growing boy needs a bit more than pork scratching cookies to live on. And that's about as far as my cooking talents extend.'

'I /like/ pork scratching cookies,' Vimes replied, knowing he was defeated.

'Well that's settled then,' she answered firmly.

'Yes dear.'

'Don't use your hen-pecked voice Sam. That's not fair.'

'No dear.'

'Sam!'

'Sorry dear.' He gave her a kiss, which became, by degrees, something often associated with kissing but in itself is (hopefully at any rate) not in any way like a kiss. 

The Disc moved onwards, towards morning. 


End file.
